Plum Lovin' (Stephanie Plum 12.50)

“You have a problem with sneaky?”

“There's another issue. She feels like she's sort of dumb about the whole thing. Like at thirty-five she should have some technique behind her.”

“I imagine you could help her with that one,” Diesel said.

“I guess, but I'm not sure I'm all that expert.”

“I could test you out and let you know how you score,” Diesel said, the grin back in place. “Rate you on a scale of one to ten.”

“Now there's an offer every girl dreams about.”

Diesel's phone rang, and he took the call.

“Yeah,” he said into the phone. “How bad is it?” He listened for a full minute, disconnected, cranked the car over and put it into gear.

“Where are we going?”

"We're going to look for Beaner. He attacked a woman in a diner two blocks from Ernie's Bar. My source said

Beaner went in for breakfast, saw this woman, and went nuts on her because she resembled his wife."

“Jeez. What did he do to her? Is she going to be all right?”

“Shell recover, but it won't be fun.” Diesel headed for the center of the city. “I know Beaner is living in the neighborhood around Ernie's. I placed him there a week ago, but I can't get a fix on him. I thought we'd go over and walk around. See if I get a vibe.”

I looked back at Bob. “It's freezing. I can't leave Bob sitting in the cold SUV all afternoon.”

Diesel hooked a left at the intersection. “We'll drop him off at your apartment. Lock him in your bathroom, so he doesn't eat your couch. Your bathroom is nice and big. He'll be okay.”

The neighborhood around Ernie's is a residential and commercial mix. There are office buildings, condo buildings, brownstones, and small businesses like Ernie's Bar all in a jumble. Diesel parked in a lot, and we set out on foot with our collars turned up against the wind and our hands in our pockets to keep warm. We covered a grid of blocks a half-mile square, but Beaner didn't register on Diesel's radar.

We ducked into a deli and got sandwiches and coffee for lunch, happy to be out of the cold.

“This isn't working,” I said to Diesel. “I vote we do it my human way and canvass the street, asking questions.”

“I'm human,” Diesel said. “I just have a few extra skills.”

I finished my sandwich and coffee and stood. “You go north and I'll go south, and we'll meet back here at three o'clock.”

I started with the girl at the register in the deli, asking if she'd seen a guy with a raspberry birthmark on his face. Her answer was no. I went to the florist next door, the drugstore, the dry cleaner. No one had seen Beaner. I spoke to the doorman at a condo building and the receptionist at a high-rise office building. No Beaner. I went four blocks south, stopping people on the street. I crossed the street and worked my way back to the deli. No luck at all.

By the time I met up with Diesel, wind-driven snow was angling down, stinging my face. Snow is picturesque in Vermont. In New Jersey, it's a pain in the ass. It slows traffic and makes walking treacherous. Dogs turn the snow yellow, and cars churn it into brown sludge.

“Any luck?” Diesel asked.

“None. How about you?”

“Zip.”

I felt my cell phone buzz. It was Larry Burlew, and I could barely understand what he was saying. He was talking at warp speed and stuttering.

“It's n~n-not working,” he said. “I don't know what to's-s-say to her. She comes over with coffee whenever I wave, but I don't know what to say. What should I say? I just's-s-say thank you. I thought I could talk to her, but nothing comes out. I d-d-don't think I can drink much more coffee, but I can't stop myself from waving.”

“How many cups have you had?”

“I d-d-don't know. I lost count. Twelve or fifteen, I think.”

“We're on our way,” I told him. “Try to hang in there, and for God's sake, don't drink any more coffee.”